


Little Steps

by Interrobang



Series: Tumblr Prompts [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Haircuts, Self-Discovery, Therapy, self-care
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-26
Updated: 2016-12-26
Packaged: 2018-09-12 07:30:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,251
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9062476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Interrobang/pseuds/Interrobang
Summary: A prompt fill from tumblr: Can i request a fic about hipster hanzo plz?It can be hard to change when you're stuck on a certain idea about who you have to be. Hanzo's determined to move on.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I love Hanzo and am glad that we're able to see how much he's moved on since the shorts and comics we've seen him in previously. But damn, the boy moved fast.

Hanzo’s therapist had said to try and introduce himself to things he’d previously cut himself off from-- to at least accept these material items if he couldn’t yet accept himself.

He’d started with clothes.

It wasn’t like he always walked around in traditional attire. The kyudo-gi and hakama were saved for battle and for special occasions. The yearly trip to break into the Shimada complex counted as one. But the rest of the time he was...well, it wasn’t glamorous.

His brother may have been the one living with monks, but Hanzo had lived ascetically for the last several years. He denied himself things: extravagant bedding, too many decorations, rich food, and other things he considered luxuries.

Including good clothing. Genji would probably be ashamed if he knew. Hanzo prayed that his spying was confined to Hanzo’s yearly trips. (It probably wasn’t. They’d talk later.)

But the clothes. When he’d first rejected his family’s wealth and attempted to remain under the radar, he’d made do with bargain store shirts and packs of socks that came in the dozens, lined up identically in plastic packaging. Their bulk purchase proved useful when they wore through after just a few weeks. 

In fact, if you wanted to get more specific, when he started with the therapist-- when he’d started with the clothes-- he’d started with the socks. Hell, it was summer when he’d started seeing the therapist. By autumn, he’d been given the challenge of acceptance. The choice seemed appropriate for his level of experience, and if he started to panic he could justify the purchase because it was also practical.

So he’d bought socks. Nice ones. They were dark black wool, soft and warm. He washed them by hand and hung them up to dry.

A couple weeks later he did something outlandish: he spent an outrageous sum on brand new jeans. He had to hem them by hand as they were a little long, but the minutes spent with needle and thread just gave him time to enjoy the suppleness of the thick denim. They fit snugly, but it was comforting somehow, just this side of reassuring.

A month after that, a freezing rain started to fall, and he’d promptly walked into a store and selected a jacket that was warm and thick and-- most scandalous of all-- _fashionable_. Its stitches were neat and even, and it had a beautiful, colorful inner lining and plenty of pockets. He kept snacks and travel money and his phone in them, careful to brush out crumbs and crumpled receipts. It even _smelled_ new, like factory soap and the weird sterility of waterproofing treatment.

Winter had started, and he was just warming up.

It snowballed from there. By the end of November he had at least three scarves with pleasant patterns on them, and he coordinated them with the rest of his outfits. Next came the gloves, soft and supple. Then he bought new boots: laced and steel-toed and durable as anything he’d ever worn, they fit like a dream and cost a small fortune.

The therapist had giggled when he’d shyly showed her his new socks, but she outright clapped when he showed up one day with a pair of earrings hiding under his hair, which he had taken to wearing loose. His hair hid them a little bit, but the tiny hoops gleamed anyway.

He’d gone straight back a week later and gotten a new, more complicated one done: a barbell right through the bridge of his nose. It was starkly visible in the center of his face, and he walked around for a week convinced it had put a target on him. He kept catching the metal out of the corner of his vision and panicking when it reminded him what he’d done, but he savored the soreness of the new piercing. In his worst moments, he substituted the pain of the piercing for the pain of denial he had slowly abandoned.

Even totaled, all those changes were easy. This was harder.

A week before Christmas, he decided to cut his hair.

He’d had long hair, once. In his youth he had been proud of his looks and taken good care of it. When he left home, he’d roughly chopped it off and refused to grow it back out. Then, it had been a statement and a release of identity: he was rejecting his upbringing. It had seemed drastic at the time.

This made that cut look like a joke.

He’d been hesitant to go to a hairdresser. He was almost forty, but the hairstyle he was attempting now was a little more...youthful. It didn’t help that he had started to go prematurely grey, either. But he’d already plunged into his new life with clothing and jewelry and little gifts for himself (a new pillow, a new bag) and he figured he might as well jump into a new life with a new look. Honestly, what else did he have to lose?

The electric razor tickled his scalp as he ran it over his skin. He’d choppily trimmed the sides of his hair down to reduce the mess, but thick chunks of hair still rained down when the clippers sailed smoothly over his head. He had to get a mirror to check the back, but he managed to do a fairly even job all around. He was left with a strip of long hair down the middle.

He blinked heavily. The stray locks of it fell into his eyes. He leaned close to the mirror, his breath fogging on the glass. His ears suddenly seemed huge, his eyes too visible. His naked scalp was starkly pale against his sun-weathered face.

He looked away, unable to maintain eye contact with himself. Suddenly, he was overwhelmed, and fat tears sprung unbidden to his eyes. He sat down heavily on the toilet lid and held his face in his hands, carefully avoiding the still-healing piercing on his nose. Jesus, when had _that_ seemed like a good idea? His chest heaved, and his legs tensed up, calves tight as he curled up on his undignified seat and tried to figure out what the fuck to do.

Through sobs, he managed to text his therapist: _I made a mistake._

Shit, it was a _huge_ mistake. A mistake he couldn’t undo, a mistake he’d have to live with-- it was all a mistake. Still breathing heavily, he started to sweep up the hair when he got a text back: _Show me._

So he dropped the broom and switched his phone to camera mode and took a blurry, crooked picture. His eyes were red and wet, but his hair was at least cut evenly, and the new hairline showed off his jewelry.

A few seconds later, he received a long string of clapping and smiling emojis. Some of them were animated. There were a lot of sparkles and party streamers. _How does it feel?_

Hanzo looked in the mirror once more, determined to meet his eyes. He ran a hand over his head. The exposed skin was soft-- almost velvety-- and warm under his fingers. When he examined himself, he discovered that he had a freckle just beyond his natural hairline. Hanzo found he was pleased by its imperfection and curious location.

He wrote back: _I'm not sure yet._

He finished sweeping. Washed his face. Trimmed his beard, cleaned his piercings, and got in bed with his new pillow (soft) and socks on his feet (warm).

He’d be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my writing blog (warning: it's NSFW) at hhgggx.tumblr.com. I post snippets, links, and the occasional poll.


End file.
